If Dekker had used his head he wouldn’t be where he was. Salvatore knew kids: kids never made mistakes, kids were too smart to make mistakes—but this kid had made a mistake, he was in far over his head. His partner was dead, a lot of survivor-guilt was wound around that—give the kid an out, that was the answer. No kid was going to understand politics and labor unions and defense budgets. Dekker had nothing to win that way and nothing but grief if he tried. Give him an excuse, offer him a way not to be accountable for his mistakes.
Before his mouth put him in real trouble.
The Department of Statistics says that the rise in birth rates this year reflects the rising number of females in the population, which will only continue to rise. Commenting on this, a spokesman for James R. Reynolds Hospital said today that the company should place contraceptives on the general benefits list. The average number of hours worked has fallen 10% during the last five years while the standard of living has continued to rise…
“Screw that,” Meg said.
“That’s what they don’t want you to do,” Sal said… population increase of 15% during the last decade…
“Then why in hell are they doing overtime?”… President Towney declares that R2 is facing a population crisis, and urges all women to consider carefully their personal economic situation. Statistics prove that women who postpone childbearing until after age 30 will on average enjoy a 25% higher standard of living. President Towney reminds all workers whether male or female that those who desire to advance in the company should Be Careful…
“Think they’ll advance us if we’re careful?” Meg snorted.
“Maybe we should go tell them we’re waiting,” Sal said.
You got the vid blasting away in the gym. You couldn’t escape it. They were sitting there sweating, waiting the breath to do the next round with the machines, and Towney was blithering again.
On the other hand…
Meg looked at her nails. It was a hobby, growing nails in heavy time. They all got clipped when you went to serious work. Or they broke off, eventually, in the dry cold.
Mostly she didn’t want to look up, because there was this chelovek just come in that she sincerely didn’t want the notice of. This gym, Sal wanted. And she’d said to Sal she’d as soon do something a little less exclusive.
“Sal.”
“Yeah, I see ’im.”
Meg looked from under her brows, tried to look like furniture, heart thumping.
Tall guy, hair shaved up, Nordic or something: his name was Mitch, he was a Shepherd tech chief, and he was a friend of Sal’s. Not of hers—most definitely not of hers. Mitch had seen them and done this little take, just a half a heartbeat, and gone on over to the weights.
“I think I’d better evaporate,” she said to Sal.
“No. Sit.”
It was fairly well Shepherd territory they were in, this little gym near the end of helldeck. It was a gym Sal had always had rights in. She didn’t. And this Mitch—Mitch never had approved of their partnership… mildly put.
Sal got up and went and talked with him. Meg tried not to be so forward as to read lips, but she could read Sal, and it wasn’t thoroughly happy.
Then Sal put her arm around Mitch and steered back toward her.
“Meg,” Mitch said.
It was her cussed nature that she wouldn’t stand up. She strangled a towel, tilted her head to get a look at him against the lights and gave him a cool smile. “B’jour, Mitch, que pasa?”
He did rab the way Shepherds did, fash. He meant the same in his way. He didn’t speak the speech, damned sure. Didn’t do the deeds. He said, “Kady. How are you doing?”
“Oh, fair.”
“That’s good. That’s good, Kady. No noise, no fusses. You’re friend of a friend of a friend, you understand. That’s gotten you this far. I must say I’ve been impressed.”
“You’re a sonuvabitch, Mitchell. Nice not seeing you lately.”
Mitch smiled. Good-looking sonuvabitch. And having the authority to toss her out of here, and out of Sal’s life.
“Don’t screw up, Kady. You’re on tolerance. You’ve run the line damned well so far. I’ve told Sal, there’s a real chance on you.”
“Take it and screw with it. I’m not on your tolerance.”
Mitch’s brows went up. Then he got this down-his-nose look, shrugged and walked away.
Meg rubbed the bridge of her nose, not wanting to look at Sal. She didn’t know why she’d done that. Honestly didn’t know why. It wasn’t outstanding good sense.
“Sorry, Aboujib.”
“Yeah, well.” Sal dropped down to her heels, arms on knees. “He asked, he got, he knew he was pushing. He’s all right.”
“Yeah. I know how all right he is. Sumbitch. Little-g god. Shit-all he’s done for you.”
Silence from Sal a moment. She’d gone too far with that one. Finally Sal said, “They’ve heard about the upset in our room. Mitch wants us out. Says lease and go, get out. They’re worried.”
“Hell if!” Meg said. “We’re close, dammit. What’s he bloody care?”
Sal’s dark face was all frown. “We do got a warning.”
“Yeah, well, Aboujib.”
“Severe warning.”
“Wants me out of here, too, let’s be honest. You get a lease, I’ll stay here and hold us a spot on the ship.”
“Didn’t say that.”
“I’m not saying split, dammit, I’m saying I stay here and hold us a spot and you keep your friends happy.”
“He’s advising both of us.”
She took a tag end of the towel, mopped her forehead, an excuse to gather her composure. “We’re that close. Dammit, Sal, you don’t get that many breaks. There won’t be another.”
Sal didn’t say anything for a moment. Meg sat there thinking, Sal’s break’s with them: her real break is with them, if she toes the line. Damn sons of bitches. Couldn’t help her. Couldn’t take her in. Toss a kid out like that… make her turn spirals til she’s proved herself—hell if, Mitchell.
Sal said, finally, “Come on. Out of here.”
On the walk, out in the noise and the traffic of the’deck: “I don’t think there’s a bug there—Mitch wouldn’t talk, else. But there’s a word out, Meg: I got to confess, I maybe said too much.”
“About what?”
“Ben got data off that they got when they were after that ship. He’s been working with it and he doesn’t give a damn what it is to anybody else, it’s his charts and he’s not going to see it dumped. He said that.”
Meg took a long, long breath. “Merde. That’s what you told Mitch?”
“Mitch came to me. They wanted a copy.”
“Ben’d kill you.”
Sal kept her voice low, beneath the noise and the echoes. “Yeah. I know it. But they won’t make the same use of it—just the information, just those chart numbers. You got to fund me, Kady. Mitch’s got my card right now. Access to our locker for the next while.”
“Shit, Aboujib!”
“On the other hand—”
“This thing’s got too many hands as is!”
“On the other hand, Shepherds have got their eyes on us after this. Dunno what they can do with those charts—but they’re thinking there’s something just damn ni-kulturny about Bird’s ship being tied up, about this kid getting killed out there, about the cops looking through the stuff—”
“You told him this. You went to him.”
Sal ducked her head. “I was worried. Worried about whether we shouldn’t cast off and get clear of this, if you want the truth. You ask yourself why the cops would turn our rooms upside down, ask yourself if there’s any damn thing we’ve been involved in out of the ordinary except we got two friends trying to file on a ship.”